


I hear you when you're quiet

by LadyMerlin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cuddles, Derek Has Feelings, Derek Has Issues, Derek Has a Bad Day, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of canon typical violence, Monster of the Week, Pre-Slash, Slight UST, Stiles Stilinski Has Low Self-Esteem, Stiles Takes Care Of Derek, Trust, blanket burrito, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2892452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of yet another horrifying day on the Hellmouth, Stiles can tell that Derek's not okay. There's not much he can do, but he'll do what he can. </p><p>(It’s a miracle Derek’s still alive, with his heart in the state it is. Everything gives out, if abused enough. Derek is incredible because he’s still standing there, and his heart is, despite everything, still beating).</p>
            </blockquote>





	I hear you when you're quiet

The Camaro idles at the curb for a long moment, and neither of them get out. At least, Stiles doesn’t get out, and Derek doesn’t say anything or make him.

He still smells like blood, he thinks. Though it might be Derek who smells like it. Or the car. Or it might be his blood-soaked life and he might just _never get rid of this smell for the rest of his life oh_ God—

Today was a bad day. He’d try to quantify it if he could, but there’s no comparator he can think of, except maybe that one time and the thing with Peter. No analogy works well enough. And the worst part is that he knows it’s just going to get worse. Bad things keep happening, and he should be used to it by now but he’s not. It shocks him every time, and he has to keep trying to acclimatize, because this is his _life_ now.

He can’t even imagine how hard it is for Derek, who’s been living under the shadow of this nightmare on his own for years and _years_. Maybe now, Derek gets jumpy when things are quiet. Maybe he’s so used to chaos and terror that the mundane is now unnatural. Stiles in not there yet, but he’s definitely on his way, and he’s not looking forward to it.

They sit there in silence for a beat, and a moment again. The leather seats are surprisingly comfortable, and he’s warm, despite the giant hole in his trousers and the cuts that have only just stopped bleeding. His knees still aren’t cooperating. He’s not sure what Derek’s thinking about, but it’s sure as hell not about the fact that Stiles is still sitting in his car beside him, or the fact that his sexy car has been idling at the Sheriff’s curb for fifteen minutes. That would have made anyone nervous, even Stiles, and the Sheriff was his _dad_. But Derek just looked like he wasn’t quite there. (Not in the car, not in Beacon Hills, not in the present, not within a radius of 300 miles, and at least fifteen years).

Stiles can’t, in good conscience, leave him like this—

(and wouldn’t Stiles-from-two-years-ago have _laughed_ ).

“So I know I’m not your favourite person or anything,” he starts, his suspicions confirmed by the way Derek jumps, like he’d _completely forgotten he wasn’t alone what the f—_

Stiles pretends he didn’t see the spasm of shock on Derek’s face. He hadn’t intended to scare him, really he hadn’t, he’s not that much of a dick (mostly), but he hadn’t known what else to do. The choice between speaking up and putting a hand on the man’s knee had been an easy one, considering that he knew _intimately_ how fast werewolf reflexes were, and how devastatingly sharp werewolf claws were, too.

(A little _too_ intimately, really).

“But I’m going to head inside, and have a bit of a cry in the shower, and then I’m going to come back out and make something to eat.” Derek’s eyebrows are furrowing, and that is perfect eyebrow-language for _‘the fuck, Stiles?’_ and isn’t it just magical that there’s a sign for his name in Derek’s eyebrow-language?

“You can go home, of course. But if you want, you can join me too. If you want.” It’s not exactly the suavest invitation, but Stiles is hardly the suavest person either, so it balances out.

Derek doesn’t respond, so Stiles does what he does best; he babbles. It’s on autopilot, even.

“I mean, I know I don’t wanna be alone and I don’t think you want to either and my dad’s not going to be home for a while and—”

He stops when Derek turns off the car, and pulls the key out of the ignition. He steps out of the car, smooth as a dream, and Stiles gets tangled in the seatbelt, trying to get out while lost in the smooth economy of Derek’s movements. Derek looks a little like he wants to facepalm, but he’s totally laughing inside, which Stiles counts as a win.

Even though it takes him another minute or two to actually _exit the car_.

“Welcome to Casa Stilinski, dude. _Mi casa es su casa_ ,” Stiles says, waving his hand at his living room once they get through the front door. It’s maybe the only time he’s ever invited Derek into his house of his own volition, through the front door, and it should probably be more momentous. Instead it feels normal, like coming home on any other day, even though Derek’s presence behind him is not easily forgotten. “I’ll probably make some sort of pasta if you wanna wait, but if you’re hungry there’s stuff for sandwiches, and coffee and tea and milk and you can just use what you want, yeah? And if you want a nap, use my room. Sheets are clean.”

Derek looks at him like he’s speaking another language.

“I was pretty serious about needing a cry in the shower, so,” Stiles says, because he really _was_ past being embarrassed in front of Derek. He doesn’t think he can ever be embarrassed again; not after the thing with the mermaids and tentacles, and that other thing with the over-friendly pixies who didn’t understand consent and the thing last week when that coven of witches had tried to celebrate Valentines’ Day to chaotic effect.

Dignity is a thing of the past. Derek scowls a lot, and punches walls. Stiles cries in the shower and doesn’t sleep for days. They all have their coping mechanisms.

Derek, bless his wolfy little heart, doesn’t say anything. He toes off his shoes and slinks into the kitchen, and for some reason, seeing Derek’s toes in his nerdy little white socks makes Stiles grin like a moron. Despite the memory of everything that had happened that day, he feels himself relax. In that moment, Derek looks like a normal 23 year old dude who just woke up with a hangover after a long night, an innocent shade of exhaustion smudged around his eyes and nothing but the memory of an ill-advised keg stand in the back of his mind.

Stiles knows that’s never going to be _either_ of them, not with their _lives_ , but still. Still. Stiles can dream. Stiles has dreamt, regularly and with alarming intensity and depth of feeling. He has spent waaaaaay too much time thinking about domestic!Derek, but no one’s going to find out about that if he can help it.

Something is seriously wrong with him. He probably needs another MRI, to make sure he hasn’t been possessed.

Again.

(his _life_ ).

“Aren’t you going to tell me not to touch anything in your room?” Derek asks from the kitchen, and Stiles pauses with one foot on the staircase.

He blinks. It sounds like something he might have said once, like Derek is quoting from memory, but it’s been a long while since he’s been shy about that either. He knows he’s an ass – there’s nothing surprising about that. “Dude,” he says, over Derek’s not-exactly-unfriendly growl, because he _hates_ being called that, “No! I said already, make yourself at home. It’s been a long time since we were on opposite teams. You know that, Derek. Don’t be dumber than you can help.”

Derek rolls his eyes, and Stiles can see it, even though he can’t see the man. At least the silence rings pleased, so he figures they’re alright.

He’s only just got the water right when the bathroom door opens behind him. He doesn’t jump, because it’s Derek. He’d have recognized the tread in his sleep; Derek’s presence familiar in the back of his mind. He doesn’t even think his heart skips a beat when the other man comes all the way in, and closes the door behind himself.

Stiles is standing under the spray of the shower, naked (because how else are you supposed to take a shower), and completely fucking exhausted. He doesn’t even have the energy to _process_ sexy thoughts, though it feels a little bit like the start of a D-listed porno.

And besides, he’s seen Derek naked loads of time, and Derek’s seen him flash his junk to the whole world too (accidentally, he swears). There’s nothing special about nudity anymore, unless it comes with the right sort of intent. At least Derek’s worth looking at, compared to him, and he wouldn’t even do that without express permission. He’s the Sheriff’s kid and consent is important and Lydia has taken him on more than enough Slut Walks to know that just because a body’s there, doesn’t make it public property.  Stiles’ pasty white form probably doesn’t even resemble a body in a sexual sense to the werewolves (and Lydia and Danny), who are perfect gorgeous specimens of humanity, who can’t understand what it’s like to be imperfectly human.

Or, who don’t remember, if they ever did.

“’Sup, dude.”

“Stiles, I swear to _God—_ ” Derek starts, and trails off when he sees the grin on Stiles’ face. He rolls his eyes again, and his shoulders slump.

“Need anything?” Stiles asks, after a crawling second passes, because he’s okay with the nakedness, sure, but he also wants to scrub his skin clean off and Derek’s just standing there, looking lost.

Derek shakes his head faintly, not making eye contact but not exactly looking away either. “I just--”

And Stiles gets it. He really does. Sometimes all he wants is to not be alone, and he knows he’s not the only one. Sometimes it gets too quiet in his head, and he worries that he’s going to peel his own skin off and he needs someone to be near him to make sure he doesn’t actually pick up a knife to do it. He can see the same desperation in Derek’s face.

He shrugs, nonchalant. “Sure, dude. Take off your clothes and get in. You smell like ass.”

Derek opens his mouth to reply, and it’s going to be something sharp, Stiles can just _see_ it (because sometimes people get mean when they’re upset and tired and he _understands_ ), but he can also see the effort Derek makes to bite back his retort. His shoulders slump even more, and he actually looks like he’s on the verge of bonelessness, and not in the good way.

“How would you know what ass smells like, Stiles?” Derek asks instead, eventually, and Stiles snorts.

“I might still be a virgin, _dude_ , but if anyone knows what ass smells like, it’s your wolfy lot.”

Derek pauses with his jeans half way down his legs, belt buckle clanking in the damp (bloody) fabric, and his eyebrows do a _thing_. “Our wolfy lot,” is all he says, instead of commenting on the illogic of Stiles’ statement.

Stiles flushes a little, and they both pretend it’s because of the heat of the water and the steam clouding in the air. “Yeah,” is all he can get out, before Derek gets in.

And it _should_ have been weird; it should have been the _weirdest fucking thing that’s happened to him_ (this month, at least). But it’s not. It’s not weird, or uncomfortable at all.

Stiles’ shower cubicle is barely big enough for Stiles to have had a single shower in his _life_ without having flailed his hands and legs into one surface or another (or both, or _all of them_ ). It’s not in his wildest _dreams_ big enough for two grown men, let alone a man with shoulders like a billboard (Derek, of course, not him).

But somehow they manage. Even though he’s still waiting to be weirded out by the fact that he’s having a shower with a man he’s never even kissed, _what the fuck._

Instead, it’s intimate in a completely non-sexual way. Stiles swaps places with Derek so Derek gets the spray, and it involves a lot of wet skin and squeezing and touching but he’s really, _really_ too tired to care, to think of it in any way other than what it is. It’s a shower. Nothing else. Derek stands there under the spray, looking like Benedict Cumberbatch in that Star Trek outtake, all smooth skin and rippling muscle and enchanting rivulets of water, and his dick is _right there in front of Stiles;_ but all Stiles can see are his drowning-miserable-kitten-eyes.

He sighs and ducks his own head under the spray to wash the shampoo out. His new showerhead is not bad, but it’s not working miracles on the dried blood on Derek’s skin. So Stiles grabs a loofa and gets to work. He uses his own body soap, because he guesses it smells familiar, and his own shampoo. He knows far too much about werewolf psychology for not being a werewolf himself.

He resists the urge to make Derek’s hair stand up in foamy peaks, and instead just lets him lean against a wall while Stiles does his thing. Derek stands there, quiet and trusting, and Stiles washes away as much of the blood and dirt as he can. Derek’s skin is smooth and flawless, unblemished by even a single scar, but Stiles imagines he can see the wounds underneath, anyway.

(It’s a miracle Derek’s still alive, with his heart in the state it is. Everything gives out, if abused enough. Derek is incredible because he’s still standing there, and his heart is, despite everything, still beating).

When Derek leans into the scalp massage and purrs under his breath, the implication of their position doesn’t evade Stiles. Derek’s hands are holding his hips like they’re the only thing keeping him upright, and they are touching _everywhere,_ and Stiles has his fingers buried in Derek’s strawberry-scented hair (shut the fuck up strawberry shampoo is the best), and he has never felt more _tender_ in his life.

He’s attracted to Derek, sure. But _Re: Consent_ , and he’s pretty sure Derek doesn’t care, so Stiles doesn’t either. He’s not an animal. He’d do this for Scott. Derek’s at least as good a friend as Scott, now-a-days. Or he’s getting there, despite his occasional dumb Alpha stunts and their not-so-occasional fights, during which Derek roars at him and Stiles roars back.

(The look on Derek’s face that first time had been so hilarious that it’s one of Stiles’ greatest regrets he didn’t snap a picture).

The boiler starts gurgling and Stiles washes all the suds off Derek, before the water gets too cold. He makes sure they’re both clean (enough) and turns off the water. Hating it, he leaves Derek standing in the tub while he looks for the spare towels in the linen cabinet. He returns with the biggest, fluffiest one he can find, and wraps it around Derek.

After what he’d had to do today, Derek probably needs to feel comfort again. Stiles knows that after the whole thing with Gerard, he’d felt like he’d never be clean again. In retrospect, that had been a cake walk compared to today. And Derek, as usual, had wound up in the thick of it. He wonders if Derek will ever catch a break, because this is getting ridiculous.

He towels Derek off and dries his hair, grinning at the way it fluffs up without all the product and makes Derek look like a dog that shook itself dry after a bath. It’s all kinds of adorable. He dumps Derek’s clothes on top of his own in the laundry hamper and leaves the bathroom door open for the steam to escape while he herds Derek into his own room.

He’s got a ratty old pair of sweats and an old police academy t-shirt he can lend Derek, because they smell like home, and bed, and sleep, and they’re all things Derek needs reminding of, tonight. Maybe on all nights. But tonight, they’re things Stiles is in charge of, and Stiles is pretty fucking impressive when he’s in charge of things.

Derek is passive and limp, in a way Stiles doesn’t like at all. Like something’s drawing the life out of him. Stiles had been planning to sleep on the sofa, but that’s clearly not a good idea. Not tonight, he thinks. There may be a special circle of hell for people like him, but he isn’t going to take advantage of the man, or even get any pleasure out of this. He’d never be able to jerk off to the memory of Derek in the shower, all soapy and _naked_ , because he’d keep seeing the misery in Derek’s eyes, and there was nothing sexy about that. He wouldn’t be able to jerk off in his own bed, thinking of Derek behind him, with his scent filling Stiles’ nose, because Derek had been hurt, and he was still hurting. There was _nothing_ sexy about that.

If he could have exchanged his new visual memories of a vulnerable Derek, for a promise from the universe that Derek would finally get a break and maybe have a good life, he’d have done it in a hot second.

“Bed,” he orders, when Derek’s dressed. Stiles pulls on his mother’s old hoodie and his holiest boxers, because some nights deserve sloppy comfort-dressing. He hopes Derek can smell the love in this old thing, as much as Stiles can feel it.

He’s not sure why he’s got this compulsion to take care of Derek, because they’re definitely friends but it’s really not his business if Derek gets any sleep tonight. No siree, not his business at all. And _yet_. And yet.

“Hungry?” he asks, one last time when they’re both lying in bed, side by side.

“Nope,” Derek says, and it’s the first word he’s said in a while. Stiles smiles at him sunnily, knowing that Derek will see it piercing through the dark anyway. Derek snorts, and Stiles begins the familiar process of wrapping himself a blanket burrito, but with two fillings instead of the usual one.

Derek snorts again when Stiles voices his thoughts, but doesn’t say anything and lets Stiles reach around him to tuck one side of the duvet under him. Derek obligingly rolls to a side and lets him fiddle with the blanket for a while, until he’s satisfied, and they end up with Derek half on top of Stiles. It should be suffocating, but he’s _never_ felt more perfectly grounded in his life.

It’s surprisingly easy to drift off then, into sleep when he wouldn’t have expected to get a single wink that night. They should do this all the time, if Derek’s some sort of magical cure to insomnia and nightmares.

He blinks awake blearily when Derek says suddenly, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

He has to blink a couple of more times to make sure that yeah, he actually has no idea what Derek is talking about. He’s pretty sure he hadn’t been sleep talking. Derek must understand the sleep-mumble-question that comes out of his mouth before he can get control over his tongue to form actual words, because he answers. “That you’re not my favourite person. I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Stiles feels a warmth spreading from his belly, all the way into his toes. He can’t stop the delighted wiggle, and there must be something about Derek that brings out his inner puppy. But he smiles anyway, so Derek can see it too. “Love you too, big guy.”

“Now,” Derek growls, and it’s so warm and playful that it doesn’t even send the usual frisson of tension down Stiles’ spine, and says in a _perfect_ Samuel L. Jackson voice, “go the fuck to sleep.”

Stiles falls asleep, still giggling, curled into Derek’s warmth and weight. Even though he can’t see in the dark like a wolf can, he doesn’t need to, to know that Derek’s smiling right back.

Maybe today wasn’t a complete waste, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is unbetad, so forgive me for any mistakes that may have been made. I do not own anything.


End file.
